It has been an uneventful week. The tiny natives have been more subdued than usual as they recovered from the sickness that ravaged the island. However, recent events prove that they are fast returning to their usual selves. I found Chunkacabra injured, bleeding heavily from the knee. Upon following the trail of blood, the culprit was discovered: a stray head of a shaving razor. My Co-Captain assures me that he takes pains to deposit such hazardous waste in the garbage. But cabinet locks and stinking waste receptacles are no match against the elder two natives, who look for trouble wherever they may find it. Sassquatch has admitted to opening the garbage can, and claims that the Loch Mess Monster procured the discarded razor blade from its depths, where he then laid a clever trap aimed at Chunkacabra’s crawling knees. She will survive–this time–but I find myself worrying for her future.

A plague has befallen the island, poisoning the entire population of tiny natives. Even my Co-Captain has been affected. I remain the only one left standing. I fear what may happen when this sickness inevitably takes me too as, while the tiny natives are incapable of caring for themselves regularly, they now require even more intensive care. Add to this the fact that sickness of the smallest kind reduces my Co-Captain to nothing more than a groaning lump of flesh, and you have an island teetering on the precipice of disaster. If I too succumb, this place is as good as lost.

The tiny natives received an offering for their amusement today: “dinosaur stickers.” Paper, a perfectly reasonable vehicle for these “dinosaur stickers,” was included, and yet the natives shun it. Instead, they have chosen to plaster the stickers on every surface that should absolutely not be plastered with small images of prehistoric creatures, including the refrigerator, the island floor, and the back of Chunkacabra’s thighs. It would seem they intend to pay homage to the dinosaurs. Perhaps those from the Jurassic are distant ancestors–or perhaps the tiny natives are completely unrelated to them, and simply admire their once-destructive ways. Whatever the reason, the damage is done. I will be scraping for days.

Today is the day we honor St. Patrick. In my culture, celebrations include activities such as parades, wearing green, sharing portraits of (supposedly) fabled leprechauns with friends, and imbibing copious amounts of ale. The tiny natives appear to have their own tradition, however, though I cannot make sense of it. Whenever left alone, they immediately empty the nearest cabinet or closet, placing the contents in an entirely nonsensical place. I do not know who St. Patrick is to them, or why they believe he appreciates their chaos. But there is enough of a semblance of order to their task to imply that it is in fact a sacred ritual, rather than a random act meant only to drive me mad. It cannot be a coincidence.

Note: I am cataloging photographic evidence of these incidents for my records, in the hope that we may further study the tiny natives’ rituals. Perhaps one day, we will understand them.

At least one of the tiny natives appears to have manifested a new power: the ability to manipulate and multiply liquid. It seems impossible, and yet I can think of no other explanation for the current state of the island. What was originally two half-full cups of water by the sink and a nearly-empty bottle of lemon juice in the garbage can has now become a veritable flood on the island floor. Even as I attempt to dry it up, more liquid keeps appearing, almost as if somehow the tiny native responsible has bewitched it to constantly renew itself. Even worse, Messy and Chunkacabra see this as a game, insisting on splashing about instead of helping–or at least staying out of the way. I cannot decide whether to continue fighting the current or flee to higher ground. Either way, I am trapped.

What I am about to relate occurred, in actuality, several days ago. I have only just recovered enough to speak of the event that will forever be known on this island as “The Egg-Drop Incident.”

I had taken terribly ill. So weakened was I that I could not even muster the strength to prepare food for myself. Hunger overtook me, until finally, I sent out a distress call. My mother, a fine Captain herself, caught my signal. She offered to come to my aid, even traveling out of her way to the neighboring island of Crouching Dragon. There she procured a food with mystical healing properties, known as “Egg-Drop Soup.” She also generously arrived bearing other delicacies: Bourbon Chicken, Lo Mein, Spring Rolls. I was delirious with hunger, and also with happiness. I opened the container of soup, along with everything else, but alas, I needed a spoon.

As I began to go to fetch our silverware, the Loch Mess Monster stood in his chair. He dropped trou. I asked him if he needed to use the restroom, which he answered with a resounding roar of a “NO!” I was too hungry to question–too out of my mind with fatigue to consider the repercussions of my actions. I believed him. I left him, half-clothed, at the table. I washed a spoon… But never had the chance to use it.

I returned to find my egg roll soggy. Nay, not soggy–floating. Messy had lied, his bladder even smaller than his sense of shame. In his frenzy, he had left me with nothing. The open container of soup? It had been yellow to begin with. I could not discern if it had been contaminated. Perhaps a braver man would have taken the chance, but I was unwilling to risk it. The Lo Mein; the Bourbon Chicken… Every last bit of desperately-needed food that had been brought had been urinated upon, rendered hopelessly inedible. I went hungry that day.

I would like to say that I have fully recovered from this tragedy–that I can look at a bowl of soup without a profound sadness–but I do not know if I ever will.

In my last log, I wrote that I had freedom–peace, even. I did not know it was only the calm before the storm…

I have hardly slept these last two nights, a victim to the phenomenon known as “daylight savings time.” 2300 hours feels like 2200; 0200 like 0100. It is difficult enough for me to discipline myself to turn in for the evening, the hours being upset as they are, but the effect on the tiny natives has been devastating. They are not tired when they should be tired, and in fact, appear not to exhaust themselves at all. I cannot say why this “daylight savings time” has robbed them of their innate need for rest, only that it has, and they seem to delight in it. My Co-Captain is largely unbothered, as for whatever reason, the tiny natives do not seek his attention in the deepest hours of the night. Their only interest is in disrupting me. This further confirms my hypothesis that my Co-Captain is, in fact, their preferred human, and that they may be weakening me in order to attempt a mutiny.

I am convinced that we have somehow leapt into an alternate reality. This foreign place is, in appearance, the island. Every surface is sticky, as on the island. Even the familiar island smell lingers here–stale, tinged with raspberry jelly and the faint aura of urine (Messy’s doing; he has yet to master his toilet habits). Despite appearances, however, something is not right. It is too quiet–eerily so. All three of the tiny natives have fallen into sleep at the same time, and because of this, I know we are not where we belong. There is too much freedom. Too much peace. This is not my world.

I will do everything in my power to find a way home for us… Perhaps next week.

Supplies are low, and tensions are high. My Co-Captain and I have nearly come to blows this morning, arguing over the remains of our dwindling food supply. As always, the tiny natives defended him, taking his side in things. They are unconcerned that he consumed my portion of the carefully rationed delicacy known as “pop-tarts,” in addition to his own. The tiny natives were able to have their portion without issue, and therefore turn a blind eye to my plight. I expect nothing more.

I am trying to keep my spirits up, though hunger gnaws at my belly. The Fifth Day has brought replenishment of our currency, and we will venture out to procure more supplies soon. I only hope I will not fade before then.